Tryst
by satanslut
Summary: Her father's been looking for him for years, but he might have the answers Frannie's been looking for all her life. *Frannie Malone/Jack*


Tryst

"I always knew he was brainless, but I didn't think he was lacking so completely in taste."

She never thought she'd tell anyone about that – the day at John's apartment when she'd stupidly offered herself to him, naked and desperate soon transformed by rejection into some pose of being world-weary and unconcerned – but here she is, telling an almost-stranger.

An almost-stranger whose bed she's lying in, every bit as naked as she'd been at John's place.

An almost-stranger who's in love with someone else.

An almost-stranger who's also the man her Dad has been obsessively hunting for years.

An almost-stranger who is Jack of All Trades.

"Yeah, well. I think he likes blondes. Just like you," she shoots back – the way she always does when she feels vulnerable. The best defense is a good offense, right?

There's no answer, not right away. Just as well. She doesn't have to look under the sheet tucked around her to know that what lies under it isn't exactly what Jack is looking for. Gawky limbs, average tits, scars from where she's cut herself – some dumb attempt to see what people find so soothing about it… None of the things men want, at least not the men she wants back.

"It's not you," he says at last, and it's such bullshit. He's a fucking serial killer and he can't even admit that the only reason she's here is because he was horny and she's the daughter of the great Bailey Malone. No, instead he throws something so trite and stupid at her and it sounds like he's quoting Oprah.

"That's so much crap. You know, it's perfectly okay to admit that I'm just some piece of ass to you. I think I'd like that better than…"

"Than the truth? You should know me better than this, Frances." When he says her name, it's nothing like the way it's ever sounded before. "I don't lie. It's not in my nature."

The way he said her name makes her feel small and vulnerable again. "A killer who doesn't lie. That's a first."

He looks like she just slapped him and for the first time she thinks maybe she's afraid of him. "Is that what you think I am? A killer?" His voice is ice-cold, hypnotic fury and she's drowning in the pure blue of his eyes.

"N-no." And she doesn't. At least not anymore. Because he's nothing like those brutal losers her father catches by the dozen. He's something… different and much more dangerous.

"Good girl." It's the sound of a parent patting the head of a small child.

It's the sound of a man patting the head of his faithful dog.

Which is she? Little girl or little bitch?

Maybe she's both.

Or maybe she's just really stupid. "Why am I here then?"

"Because I invited you," he says, with an undertone of grandeur that makes it sound as if she was asked to attend some glamourous party instead of a mid-priced hotel room downtown.

"Because I'm the daughter of your arch-nemesis, Bailey Malone?" she asks, but she's not really asking. She already knows.

"That's one reason," he says, and maybe he's as honest as he claims to be because he doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. It's a fact and he's saying it.

"And the others?"

He smiles in the least happy way she's ever seen. "You wouldn't understand." Then his eyes go closed-off and flat and she almost misses the anger.

"You love her, don't you? Samantha, I mean."

"Yes." One word but she can hear… there's a whole book written underneath the sound of his voice, but she's not sure she understands the language it's written in.

There's another book now, though, and it's one she's shocked to realize she's already read. "You love him, don't you? Agent Grant." Those last words are all but spat and, whether he'll ever know it or not, she realizes exactly why she's here.

Somewhere in the back of his head, there's someone's disapproving voice and the knowledge that, no matter what, he'll always be a disappointment, just like her. The one he loves will never get it and will never love him back.

She'd love to tell him her own opinion of smooth-voiced, icky-sweet Samantha Waters and how that bitch likes to keep every man around her dangling like her own personal harem of marionettes, but she knows there's no point and she's not under the illusion that she's so great a lay that Jack would let her live after insulting his dream girl, so she keeps her mouth shut and turns to lie on her back and stare at the ceiling.

Until Jack moves.

He gets out of bed, naked, but it's weirdly un-sexy looking at him now and it's hard to believe he was inside her a few minutes ago. Something about him… it's like there's a switch and he can just turn off the part of him that's a real person. Now? She doesn't think he even feels the urge to pee.

She sits up and watches him dress and it's like he's putting pieces of himself back together. She's finally meeting Jack of All Trades. It occurs to her that maybe she won't live through this after all. But then he turns and comes back, sitting on the bed. "It's not you," he says, and this time it means something. A hand that has done brutal, bloody, ugly things – a hand that has caressed her body – comes to rest on her cheek. "You're a special girl." The kiss he leaves on her forehead feels more intimate than his cock inside her did.

And then he's gone.

Frances gets up, gets dressed, and follows five minutes later. She knows the guy at the front desk thinks she's a hooker Jack – or Robert Ellis, the guy whose name is on the register – picked up by the way he stares at her as she leaves. No difference there; no difference at all. Just another in a long line of guys to whom her name will never be Frances or Frannie, but just 'piece of ass.'

But she _is_ different. She is. Because Jack said so.

Someday she'll wonder why from now on, when she sleeps, she dreams in blue.

The End.


End file.
